CHARLOTTE'S PURGATORY.

A WOMAN AND HER LIFE AND THOUGHTS.

The sunlight enters my window like a peeping Tom, said Charlotte. My bed is empty; James has fled to his work and sty. The pillow and sheets stink of his lovemaking and sweat. My sister, Emily, oh yes, of course Sister Blaise, kneels in her cell and prays her prayers like a w***e her wares. She is the Crucified’s lover; her hand and feet are numbed by his kiss and touch. My mother would have loved me more if she had not misplaced her mind in her autumn days. My father squeezed me on his lap and whispered secrets to make my mother blush. Hush, hush he’d say, and would tickle me into fits and starts. James spoke of love and kids; his wishful dreams are sour to my taste. I must rise and wash; cleanse my flesh like one new born. The taint of James shall be undone; his touch is all but gone. My skin is scarred; marked by love of pain; the wounds of love are fresh and clear. I walk to the window and peer at the sky. The clouds pass by; pale as my sister’s flesh; puffed up like my mother’s pride. Emily, the pure of flesh, Sister of the soul and prayer, has marked me down, doomed, and sold; her words bore me with tears; her stink of purity is foul to my nose. My father said in his wasted years that I was his apple and seed; his eyes blinded by his age and time; his fingering touch explored my innocent caves; opened up my sense of sin. I dress and stare at the mirrored self. The lines are few; the crow’s feet are lightly grained. Last night, in our joined flesh, James spoke of Paris and the days of art; the nights we met in sordid love; the café haunts from day and night. The bed unmade; the sheets undone; the soiled air are all there is of love and lust; his harsh pain on flesh and soul. I close my door; walk the street like one unmarked; stare and smile my stranger’s lot.  What of her that prays my soul? How squeamish she of wings and frogs, of dirty deeds and kiss and tell. Let her crucified have her in her untouched gown; hold her close in her in weeds of death. Father dreamed of Mother’s touch; her light and love in early years. Damned and dirtied by her lost and freeze, he mirrored me in his nightly touch. The sky’s a darker colour now; the dim lit faces of the dead and dying are friends of mother now. The Champs-Elysées is my haunt and love. I met my fate and James’s kiss amongst the cafés and lit up nights. My wounds are close to me as I sit and drink, my daily meditation on my aches and pains. May my sister’s prayers sink in the Seine; may her sinless skin rot in her grave with all her sisters of the dying breed. My father’s touch taints the air; my mother’s words are ghost-like in their distant tone. I drink like one hoping for death; sip my wine like Judas’s cup until the dregs numb my mind to an endless sleep.